It was the third day of the second week since Hon had arrived at Lindgry, a coastal town at the edge of the kingdom of Talmud, a geographical position that allowed Lindgry to benefit from little inspection and transit control even by Talmudist standards. Much like the ten or so days before that one, Hon entered the Drifter's Edge Inn and picked an isolated table, intending to spend away the earnings from his books on cheap ale.
The floorboards sang a new tune in creaks every time a customer came in, to the point where Hon could almost tell who it was that entered the establishment by their song alone, and he'd grown particularly fond of his own tune, listening carefully as he made his way to his table of choice. The image of the meager man sitting at the corner of a bar drinking away his earnings was one that did Hon many favors, titles were important and he would much rather be Hon the Drunkard these days, past experiences having taught him the advantages of anonymity. Hon had noble looks, but not noble enough that he couldn't pass for a drunkard. Blonde slick hair that sat like a broken cup atop his head, undecided whether to block his eyes or not. The color of his hair — while predominantly blonde — was a strange mix of brown and yellow that had on occasion made others ask whether Hon was a victim of a magical mishap or changed his hair color with a spell. Neither being true, as Hon's noble features is where his nobility ended, that caliber of spell would definitely leave a dent in his considerable savings. Hon also had a beard he left unchecked which made him look exactly like the kind of person that fell down a well because they tripped on the wrong bucket, figuratively speaking of course, one must clarify considering this was the literal fate of the person that lent credence to this saying.
Which is one of many subjects of one of Hon's books: The Origin of Sayings, by Hon of Lenfell. Hon, the Writer; Hon, the Historian; Hon, the Mythologist. Titles that once defined who he was and how he saw himself, but that didn't do it as much any longer. Whereas before titles were part of his being, they've become much more akin to pieces of clothing one would wear on a given day or occasion, allowing his sense of self to float adrift on the vast blue sea of indifference that plagued his days, finding little to no consolation or escape at the bottom of his tankard. And now this Inn he'd been visiting for the past ten days felt more like home than his own house.
Hon thought there was a relaxing oppressiveness about the Inn, all were equal under the rotting wood of its foundation, the creaking floor, the damp walls. No matter who you were upon entering this place, what it named you had more power than your stance, your clothes, your hierarchy, your titles, the soul of the Inn was overbearing and would take over any other regardless of size. It was oppressing, it was downright antagonistic if you were different enough, but there was a relaxing aspect to having all that stepped inside made equal under a higher power. It wouldn't matter if you controlled the town of Lindgry with a wave of your hand, because inside that Inn all that the wave of your hand would get you is more ale, and a good sober friend to pour it, and a good drunk friend to hear your sorrows, should you need it. Men were made equal, the rapist and the saint were one and the same, and no one was above that.
Or so Hon thought, because the floorboards sang a new tune, and like every other time Hon looked up to the entrance, only to see the very soul of the Inn cower before the man that had walked through the door. Everyone else was equal, but this man was not.
He wore a peasant's clothes, or the idea of what a peasant's clothes would be to someone that had never worn any. Not to imply this man was a noble, there were particularities to his gait and how he moved that Hon learned to recognize very well during the time he was researching his previous book. This man wasn't a wolf in sheep's clothing, this man hunted wolves.
The man scanned the room until his gaze met Hon's, at which point he produced a polite smile, making his way to Hon's table shortly after. As he walked further inside the establishment, the lighting allowed Hon to analyze the man more closely.
Many things can be told from what one chooses to wear. A brown hood covered a white linen shirt, the shirt's laces were very carefully tied and had seen little to no use from their apparent wear, his pants were clean near the boots and on the knees, the hood had no variation in its coloring that would definitely show up as soon as it performed the duty of protecting the wearer from the harsh Talmudist weather. No white linen shirt maintains its color in Talmud, thus no white linen shirt is worn, dark green and brown being most common. The lighter shade on the brown hood suggested also that it was purchased elsewhere. On one hand, the general lack of wear could simply suggest his clothes were recently acquired, acquired by a person that does not know much of Talmud, a traveler. However no one wears a white linen shirt with work pants, or shoes with work pants, no one uses work pants to travel or manages to keep a hood this clean during a trip, all of which is not only common knowledge but easily deductible by any person that has interacted with the lower class at least on occasion.
The man was no peasant, which led Hon to assume this was the man he had been waiting for. The man stopped next to Hon's table then spoke.
— Hon of Lenfell, I presume. — He said with a serene tone, seemingly unphased by Hon's stench of alcohol.
Hon nodded in response, then extended his hand. — You have me at a disadvantage, friend. — Hon couldn't help but feel small close to this stranger, he was at least a quarter meter taller than Hon and had enough muscle mass to crack Hon like a twig.
The stranger promptly shook Hon's hand with a firm grip. — Did I not sign the letter? I distinctly recall doing so. — The stranger then sat across Hon, uninvited. His movement was very deliberate, there was confidence to it, the kind of confidence one would only find in a man that had a great deal of authority or power.
— So it is you, huh? — Hon sized him up again, interested in how the man chose to keep his hood covering his head still. — You did sign it but only as L, no name. Hence this place, thought you'd appreciate the privacy.
The stranger chuckled. — Oh, forgive me, my letters go through very thorough analysis before being sent, my name must've been lost in the process. I'm Lien, Lien Ghorksdat.
Hon furrowed his eyebrows. — Ghorksdat.. I once met a chieftain with that title.
Lien chuckled again. — Yes, yes. It is a northlander title. I am not a northlander, however, I was merely found worthy of it and I took great pleasure in using it. Most aren't perceptive enough to make that connection and those few that do tend to be northlanders themselves, which in turn are very unlikely to cause me any trouble.
— Yeah, yeah, Lenfell nobles say northlanders are like swords, you either have the hilt or the blade pointed towards you. — Hon chuckled after, more as a pause to continue than because of his joke. — However, northlanders don't give titles to foreigners, so either you're full of shit, or... — Hon let the phrase hang in the air with a half smile and a raised hand, almost as an invitation.
Which Lien declined with a smile, remaining silent, allowing silence to force Hon to continue his own phrase.
Hon laughed. — Oh, come on, do you know what it translates to? Mountain tamer, what does that even mean? — Hon sounded very excited, his words coming through with a wide smile. — I'm a historian Lien, come on, tell me the story. I never heard of a foreigner having a northlander title let alone one I've only ever seen in a single chieftain!
Lien looked down to the table, pleased with this outcome, then looked up to Hon again. — I answer how I got it if you answer one question about the Black Knight, from your book.
Hon's smile went away for a moment, a serious tone returning to his voice. — As I said in the letter, I'm not revealing his location or how to find him.
Lien shook his head. — That's not the question.
Hon thought about it for a few seconds whilst staring at the empty tankard at his side of the table. Hon thought that if whatever he was asked was too risky for the price of sating his own curiosity, he could just refuse to answer, it was a good deal, so he nodded — Fine. — Then he looked back up to Lien. — Shoot.
— Was the Black Knight a northlander. — Though phrased as a question, the monotone delivery made it sound like a statement.
Hon shook his head. — No, but he was of northlander descent. You could see it in his complexion. — Hon gestured around his own face. — He wasn't pale as a corpse but was definitely kind of like that dirty white, not perceptible at first glance but after spending so much time with him I also picked up on a few other hints. He was definitely of northlander descent. — Then Hon put his fist on the table and slowly pointed with his index finger towards Lien. — Your turn.
Lien looked down to the table smiling, satisfied with the answer he got, then responded nonchalantly. — I killed a dragon.
Hon's eyes widened, a mix of emotions went past his expressions on a very short time window, surprise, disbelief, horror, curiosity, awe. He recomposed himself, then swallowed dry. — What kind?
— White dragon. — Lien responded, indifferently.
Hon nodded with pressed lips, realizing he had so many more questions to ask, which in turn made him realize that the Ghorksdat title was a trap designed specifically for him. Lien wasn't lying, which made this whole situation much stranger. If this man could kill a dragon then why was he sitting there and talking? With a trap set specifically to reel in his historian curiosity, Hon thought.
— Ok, you got me. — Hon raised his hands in defeat. — I'm curious, interest piqued.
Lien frowned slightly at this reaction. — ...but?
— But you already knew that. I don't like being manipulated, Lien.
— Manipulated? — Lien asked.
— Please don't play the fool, the very notion that you knew how to set up a bargain before even saying your name makes your intelligence as intimidating as your stature. — Hon had learned a long time ago that if you're going to accuse someone, it is best done with a compliment.
Lien's first unintended smile came through after the compliment, whether it was because he agreed or because he found it funny Hon could not tell. Perhaps both.
— You overestimate me. — Lien responded.
— Do I? — Hon inquired.
Lien remained quiet for a moment, allowing the chatter and clanks of cups and tankards to fill the atmosphere around them for a bit. His voice was a bit more somber when he next spoke. — Do you remember what I said in the letter, about why I wanted to talk?
Hon nodded. — Not verbatim, but you said I stumbled upon something much bigger than I could understand, and that not only did it need addressing but, more importantly, you needed its help.
Lien nodded. — Do you believe me?
Hon sighed in response. — It lacks the arrogance of a lie.
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Lien moved his tongue inside his mouth slowly before swallowing, then clicked his tongue. — I need to find him. — His tone was serious, charged with what felt like the weight of responsibility.
Hon felt like he was treading in very shallow ice, but decided to not budge. — I won’t help you. — He responded, shaking his head.
Lien’s gaze turned back to the table, silence falling in between the two again. While Lien’s expressions were mostly obscured by the hood, Hon could tell what manner of thought was going through his mind. An old fear took place in Hon’s heart, one permanently seared into his soul by the very man they were talking about, and thus he spoke again.
— Look, let’s try again. — Hon took a deep breath. — I am Hon of Lenfell, a historian, you came here to talk about my previous book, the Myth of the Black Knight. You referenced my other work and my methods, you know a great deal about me. — Hon then pointed a finger towards Lien. — You are Lien Ghorksdat, a name that for me answers no questions and raises tens of them. You have me at a disadvantage, Lien, I can’t negotiate this kind of information with a man I know nothing about. — Hon stared intently at the man trying to piece out his reaction, he thought of mentioning the hood but felt it safer to not push his luck.
Lien remained silent for a bit, then he looked up. He stared at Hon for a few seconds, then took his hood off.
He had not white but silver eyes, eyes that almost reflected the light that was shining their way. His face had a scar that ran from just below his eye, through his mouth and over to his chin. His features were harsh and pronounced, his nose had definitely been broken in the past, and there was no hair whatsoever anywhere on his face. Not on top of his head, no eyebrows, no beard, not even eyelashes were present, and it wasn’t even the most striking thing about him. His whole head was scarred, from forehead to top and to the sides, scarred tissue mixed with burn marks that seemed to have not only not been treated but had barely healed in the first place, they didn’t seem recent but there was something that was definitely not letting them heal.
Hon had seen similar features in the past, or treatments that suggested these features, he stared blankly at Lien in an attempt to recall what they were. It took him a few seconds until he did, and all the while Lien seemed to wait patiently.
— You’re a Templar. — Hon finally said.
Lien nodded. — Templar Captain of the Golden Crest Sect.
— Huh. — Hon said, his emotions cycled between surprise, disbelief and fear. They settled for incredulity, one clearly reflected in his half smiling expression. — So what could an organization that is both politically and militaristically omnipotent possibly want with that man, and furthermore, how could it possibly need his help?
— I can’t tell you. — Lien responded, nonchalantly.
Hon scoffed, then nodded. — Sure. — He looked back down at the table and pondered the matter. A Templar Captain from one the highest and most secretive Sects had approached him saying he had stumbled upon something that was greater than he could understand, and that they needed the help of that monster. It didn’t make sense to him, but it didn’t have to make any sense for him to understand just how serious it was. Even so he couldn’t give it up for free, he wouldn’t, the Templars were secretive and cared little for their reputation, their actions seemingly erratic and with no allegiances. He needed to understand, and as such he decided to concede once more.
— Page two hundred fifty five, third paragraph. — He sighed, almost as if preparing himself, then continued. — To be kind is to strive for kindness in spite of failure. Thus purpose is fundamented within the self as the calmest running water, which persists in its current but takes nothing with itself… — He paused for a short moment, attempting to recall what came next — Rests the stone at its bottom for the stone is not water, swims the fish within itself for the fish is not water, matters not that they need the water or not for the water cares only that it is water. And such is the self and how it bathes in kindness, free from harsh or rispid textures, flowing freely in the humble intention of being kind. Never justify unkindness, never fill the river of your own self with doubt, flow freely and all will follow.
Lien recognized immediately what Hon was quoting, and then spoke as well, completing the rest of the quote alongside Hon.
— Be kind and all will follow, be truthful and all will follow, justify others as you would yourself and all will follow, to seek truthfully is to find, be unto others that which would have saved you.
— The Lallya passage. — Lien said, staring at Hon curiously.
Hon nodded. — My mother wanted me to be a Templar, I still remember the whole damn book by heart, could never forget it, passed with flying colors. Became a Lorekeeper for the Iron Crest Sect, but I left. — Hon smiled at the memory, a mix of emotions made themselves visible in his expression before he continued. — I’m a historian, I want to tell stories, to record tales, not keep them. — He chuckled.
Hon felt a whiplash from the contrast in Lien's mood to his own, that information seemed to have soured Lien's mood significantly. He stared at Hon in silence, an intensity to his stare. Hon's heart almost skipped a beat, there was a sense of vertigo to the situation, the type that anticipates a fall rather than warn of it.
— Hon of Lenfell, or Hon Lancast Filan, son of Mihrta Filan and Jihgsan Lancast. Have you been using listening spells to conduct research unsanctioned by the Order? — His voice bore authority, he spoke in the kind of tone that suggested whomever was being spoken to was on borrowed time.
Hon did not respond, he tried to maintain an expressionless face but he couldn’t stop it from becoming pale. His heart rate accelerated, after all he found himself face to face with a predator, a predator holding himself back from lunging at his mark. Hon said nothing, because nothing is always better than a lie.
Lien’s expression and tone grew in intensity. — Hon, for this crime I could kill where you stand. — The smell of burnt flesh started pervading the air. — The gravity of it grants me authority to kill everyone in this establishment. — His voice was slow delivering the words, each one of them a pointed spear. — The gravity of it grants me authority to burn this city and not once beg Lallya for forgiveness, for it would be a righteous deed by every book of law you could cite before me. — There was a strange light under the skin of his head, it had a strange shape, and it seemed as if his scalp was being cooked from the inside.
— However. — Lien said, allowing the dread of silence to greet Hon before continuing. — However, as luck would have it I know your work, and as you’ve stated in the letter which I am choosing to believe you have ceased your activities. — Hon couldn’t help notice that Lien’s head looked as if it was burning from inside. — Rules, Hon, they exist for a reason, they stop us from wandering blindly into greater evils. I do not expect you to understand the gravity of what you’ve done, but I do expect you to follow the rules you had sworn your life upon. — Lien took a deep breath, after which his scalp seemed to stop burning. — However, I do not think you’ve wandered into these evils or caused them, so as a gesture of good faith, I will not only let this go, but I won't make further inquisitions upon the matter.
Lien took another deep breath upon finishing, then ran his hand over his head with an amount of strength applied. He closed his hands and winced as he pulled at his scalp removing the flesh, revealing that it had been cooked from the inside. The grinding made a wet sound as a transparent liquid mixed with blood started running down from the gaping wound. Blood ran down Lien’s face and to the side of his head slowly, he started whispering something as Hon saw the glow underneath the exposed flesh of his scalp once more show up, shortly after the blood stopped flowing for the wounds were no longer bleeding. Lien threw the dead flesh he had torn from his scalp to the ground on his side and used his hands to clean the excess blood on his face, cleaning his hands on his clothes afterwards.
Hon exhaled, noticing that he had been holding his breath for uncomfortably long. His eyes were fixated on the open wound at Lien’s head, there was a nightmarish quality to the situation that Hon couldn't help but indulge in, he was terrified. Terrified of the accusations, terrified of the man standing before him and whatever it was that he had done to himself. A deep breath was followed by a sigh, Hon thought he had already paid enough for this sin, and the realization that the threat of death and torture felt tame compared to what he was already running from made it all worse. It made sense that Lien had authority to do as he spoke, considering the consequences of Hon's actions.
Hon tried his best to recompose, attempting to treat the whole situation of Lien removing his scalp using his bare hands with at least a fraction of the naturality that Lien did.
Hon cleared his throat. — Well… — He knew he should not take this gesture of good faith lightly, this man was apparently doing his best to level with Hon, and now he understood just how fine a line he was treading by talking to him. Regret welled up regarding this meeting but it was quickly crushed by the weight of his own curiosity on the matter, which was poignantly accentuated by what he had just seen. — Well… — Lien was still staring at him. — Well uh.. I appreciate it very much but.. well.. I can't tell you without knowing more, I really can’t.
Lien contemplated his words silently, then shook his head. — I can’t say more either, or rather, I won’t.
Hon nodded, having expected this response. — Which is why I propose a jettruvian deal.
Curiosity manifested in Lien's expression. — I'm not sure I follow.
— You're not familiar with the term? — Hon asked.
— I am, yes. But I don't understand the usage I'm afraid.
— Well, half pay for half of the product, right? You want to understand more, to learn more, I can tell you most of my experience with the man and you give me an incomplete picture of the reason you need him. If we think the deal is good for both ends we continue, if we think it's not we drop the deal. A jettruvian deal.
Lien tilted his head lightly, surprised at the offer. — That's a creative interpretation of it. — Lien went silent, pondering Hon's words while letting his gaze wonder. The other customers seemed to have been shooting stares and breeding whispers regarding him, which didn't come as a surprise to Lien. — I'm tempted to say you misunderstand your position, but I'm willing to play along your rules for the time being. — He looked back at Hon before speaking again. — But I came in here to talk to a potential friend, a person whose work I found inspiring, but now I am striking a deal with a heretic, you'll be wise to remember this.
Hon gulped, then nodded silently.
A silence filled with a certain air of anticipation arose between them, several beats of a silent song flew by while Hon's anxiety over the whole situation made his gut start turning. The smell of burnt flesh hadn't completely gone away and it was hard to not stare at the gaping wound in Lien's head, he couldn't help but be assaulted by thoughts delineating the tragedy of his situation: Hunted by the unnameable, standing before what would be his executioner, forced to reminiscence on the most traumatic experiences of his life so he could better tell them as a story. He sighed, then remembered that he wanted to know more, he wanted what he saw and went through to make sense, and most importantly, he wanted to stop running, so he broke the silence.
— Who starts?
— You. — Lien responded, instantly.
Hon sighed. — Fine. But I'm a storyteller and without knowing what you want I can't tell you the parts you want to know specifically.
— So tell me everything.
Hon chuckled nervously. — That… will take a while.
Lien shrugged. — I have time.
Hon nodded. — Okay. So… from the moment I met him to when we separated it was seven to eight months, and they were not consecutive. Is there any particular moment you are interested in? The book omits a lot but you can still make use of the general timeline and I can start from there.
— The very beginning, please.
Hon nodded with a sigh. — Well, I can do that, just let me think for a moment.
Hon wanted to deviate from the details he didn't want to talk about by lying through omission, shifting the timeline over or around them, but a story from beginning to end would make a lie much more obvious and difficult to hide, so he found himself in a position where he would have to tell everything. This was bad. Partially because this could get Hon killed by the templar, but mostly because it just really hurt him to go through it all again. He expected to talk about it at the meeting, but not to this level of detail, not in a way that had him reliving every part of it. He took a deep breath, having the memory of what he was about to tell make him slightly sick in the stomach, then began.
— Well, funnily enough, it starts with me planning a trip to here, this city. I had been trying to find this man for several months and I was lucky enough to overhear a woman talking about chasing down a certain man that was a Larian army deserter who had helped her father several years ago. Apparently she was the daughter of the Morir Baron, the one that got assassinated, and she blamed his death on this Larian deserter. Since I knew the Black Knight fought in the Red War on the Larian side and went missing by the end of the war, I decided to try chasing down this lead because every other had led me nowhere.
— Why not cast a listening spell? — Lien asked.
Hon gulped, then looked down, terrified of having to answer, Lien seemed to interpret this as being afraid of him so he continued.
— Don't worry, I'm here as a spectator, not a judge, if you used listening spells to conduct your research then why didn't you use them to find this man?
Hon swallowed dry again and then settled for a half truth. — Well they require some prior understanding, you have to understand I didn't even know what the man looked like.
Lien nodded, apparently believing the lie. — Fair enough.
Hon cleared his throat, then continued. — So I volunteered to be the guide for the Morir lady so long as she took me along, claiming I also had business in Lindgry. She laughed at me, I didn't look like the kind of man that would have business in Lindgry, but eventually she caved in. I know most of the routes by heart and I could prove it with one look at the map. It wasn't ideal but it was a lead, it was more than I had back then, perhaps I could discreetly follow the lady around, or try to learn more through conversation, or maybe even find an excuse to keep accompanying her, who knows.
— Did the lead bear fruit? — Lien asked.
Hon sighed, his gaze falling to the table, apparently bracing for what came next.
— Well… that it did…
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